


The Thoughts on Day 9,999

by UAs_Fics



Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Cross-posted, Mild Gore, One-Shot, Shadow skin wilson, Sort Of, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-05
Updated: 2017-12-05
Packaged: 2019-02-10 20:37:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12919788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UAs_Fics/pseuds/UAs_Fics
Summary: Wilson learned a long time ago that one can only live so long before they final come to the conclusion it doesn't matter anymore.Inspired by a fan art by Mazurou on tumblr





	The Thoughts on Day 9,999

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by an amazing art piece by Mazurou on tumblr! (https://mazurou.tumblr.com/post/167803123105/undead)  
> Please check out their awesome blog! :)

Title: The Thoughts on Day 9,999  
Rating: T  
Fandom: Don't Starve  
Ships: N/A  
Content Warnings: Mild gore, suicide  
Other: Inspired by an amazing art piece by Mazurou! Please check out their awesome blog! :) 

 

There were two things Wilson knew with complete and utter certainty: one, none of this mattered anymore, and it probably never did, and two, that he was so very tired because of it.

Both those facts weighed heavily on Wilson's mind had he trudged through the swamps. The distance echoes of birds and the occasional unidentifiable grunts carried on the putrid breeze use to make him nervous. He would pick up his pace and hurry to his camp in the middle of the swamp on a small island of forest trees that had taken root in the slightly less acidic ground. Wilson would fumble with his flint, trying to craft a makeshift spear to hold close while he waited for daybreak, huddled near to his fire. 

But that was a different Wilson than the one walking down the muddy path now. That Wilson still had hope he would escape this hellish wilderness, return home with the knowledge he had gained. That Wilson had not been trapped on the Throne. That Wilson hadn't heard the horrible, tragic, and yet so very lovely whispers of Them in his head. That Wilson had been ignorant. 

That Wilson had been a very lucky bastard.

The telltale whipping of a tentacle made Wilson stop for a moment and turn his gaze. About a twenty feet off, two tentacles trashed around as a small clan of merms ran and punched at them. One of the tentacles slapped a merm across its stomach, sending it flying into its own dilapidated house. 

The merm did not get back up.

Wilson considered watching them for a moment, to see the outcome, but chose against the idea. Whatever spoils there may be would likely still be there tomorrow, or, if they're not, it doesn't matter much. 

Nothing really did anymore.

~~~

The bed roll from the chest was warm. Bits of bunnymen fur had worn away from use, but Wilson didn't care. He tossed the roll out and lied down, face towards the burning fire. The flames danced in the pit as they made their way to the sky. One of the blacken logs inside the roaring white and orange flames crumbled. Small embers flew up.

Absentmindedly, Wilson reached out to grab them. The fire licked the exposed skin between his glove and his sleeve. The man jerked his hand back to his chest with a hiss, then winced. He'd bit down on his tongue as well. 

Blood welled up in his mouth. He jolted up and spat into the fire before wiping the remaining dripple away on the back of his glove.

With a heavy sigh, Wilson sat crossed legged on the bedroll. He pulled off his gloves and tossed them aside then turned his wrist over. The burn was gone now, a quick heal, just like his tongue. 

Wilson slowly began to unbutton his vest, then his shirt. He slipped his finger under his tie to pull it lose before setting it near his discarded gloves and removing his suit jacket. He held the pinstriped jacket in his hands, running a thumb over the smooth fabric and watching as the shadows flicked off it. Then it too was tossed into the growing pile, soon with his vest and shirt.

Wilson steeled himself before looking down. 

Though he could feel in always there, thrumming in time to his own heartbeat, sometimes Wilson needed to set his eyes on it.

A life giving amulet, resting in the middle of his chest. Its blood-colored gem pulsed with energy. Every few seconds, a shadow would slither through before disappearing.

Sometime during his stay on the Throne and without Wilson noticing, his flesh had grown around the gold the gem was set in. Only a few small slivers glinted against the orange fire light. 

In the beginning, when Wilson was first tossed from the Throne after a millennia of sitting, his new attachment had been a Godsend. A life giving amulet that never wore out.

He only needed to wait but a few moments for his strength to return after a fight. If he was killed, he would always been returned to life in a matter of seconds, ready to pick up where he had left off.

No matter the biome, no matter the enemy, Wilson always got what he was after. He built camp after camp, growing and cultivating the world around him until he no longer had to fear starvation or the seasons or the beasts that roamed the lands.

But that had been long, long ago.

After about 1000 sunrises, Wilson had stopped counting the days he had been here.

They didn't matter anyway. 

He had just grown so bored with it all.

Though Wilson detested the man who brought him here, he couldn't help but empathize with Maxwell. If given the opportunity to escape, to exchange his life for another’s, Wilson knew he would do so in a heartbeat.

Wilson pressed his exposed fingers against the gem. Around the 800 mark, he had tried desperately to carve the gem from his chest. He'd tried flint, an axe head, even a sharpen piece of thulecite, but all it did was make a bloody mess of his campsite and leave chips of stone under his skin. Every wound healed too quickly for him to dislodge the amulet.

Wilson let his hand fall to his side then turned his face to the sky. The stars flecked the inky blackness, and the moon shown a waning crescent. His lips twitched in a half smile. It was too bad those stars and that moon were fakes. If he let his eye unfocus a moment, the celestial bodies above looks so much like those back at home. Or he thought they did. After all this time a fog had settled into much of his memory.

The man stood. Still bare chested, he walked to the edge of the firelight.

The night beast, the Queen, had killed him before. Many a deep winter's night, his fire would go out and without fuel to feed it, he would be at her mercy. Dying, coming back, dying, coming back dying all throughout the cold night. 

Maybe this time, if, as she bit and clawed at him, he pleaded with her to please end it: Tear his body into too many pieces to be fixed, carve this wretched gem from his flesh, she would be kind to him.

If it did work, he would be free. If it didn't work, well, that would be more proof that none of this really mattered anyway.

With that final thought echoing in the back of his mind, Wilson stepped into the darkness.

~Fin~

**Author's Note:**

> If you haven't checked out the piece that inspired this, then I suggest you do so, mostly because it's awesome!  
> When I first saw it on my dash, I couldn't help thinking how much it really would stink to just keep living in the don't starve world, never really able to fully die. With that thought in mind, I got on typing. ^-^)/


End file.
